The Memory of Poetry

I was feeling a little at a loss of what to post. I have not story fragments to share at this time. I have no earth-shattering or witty comments on current events. Instead, I thought I would delve into my stored collection of poems.

It is amusing to look at work, largely forgotten by time. Most of my favourite poems date from University - my poetry phase. From those that I recorded, I have selected one that still brings a smile to my face as I recall both the poem and the washing machine that inspired its creation.


There are Spartans in My Basement

There are Spartans in my basement
I really do maintain
Though I haven't seen them
I feel them now and again

There are Spartans in my basement
I feel them march around
For the whole house starts to shake
From the attic to the ground

There are Spartans in my basement
And what a noise them make
The rhythmic thumping of their feet
Is a sound hard to mistake

There are Spartans in my basement
And they seem to time it right
Only when we do our laundry
Do they come to march and fight

There are Spartans in my basement
And funny you should note
That they seemed to disappear
When our washing machine broke

There are Spartans in my basement
A new washer to see
I have a funny feeling
They've gained a new technology

There are Spartans in my basement
I think they now must fly
For helicopters seem to land
On our house when passing by

There are Spartans in my basement
Helicopters on the roof
And when we do the laundry
I know that I've my proof

The Cry

Yes, I'm aware that I missed Friday's post. But I do have an explanation. I am currently vacationing in the frigid Siberianesque land of Ottawa and didn't bring my external hard drive with me. What I hadn't considered at the time was the fact I kept all my writing on my external so I really don't have much to post while I'm here.

My stay is also shaping up to be a little longer than I anticipated but I don't want to go two days without posting something. And something more than "lol, no posts because I'm stupid."

Now, I did just see Side Effects and thought perhaps I could write up a post on my thoughts for that movie. However, after discussing it with my friend, I really don't see much point. At the end of the day, Side Effects is created to be solely entertainment with little thought or care for creating a believable world, characters, themes or narrative. Thus, any discussion about the unbelievability of the characters and the ludicrousness of the plot is a waste. The creators had no intention of making a sound story and deep analysis is really just a waste of anyone's time.

So, suffice to say I wasn't a big fan of it but given it's premise (the possibility of a drug inducing someone to commit murder) was rather stupid anyway. I would have forgiven the movie that small element if it decided to be a more scathing criticism of the American Healthcare System, but it is very conservative in its views and by the end not only is the system itself not at fault but also it was the "wicked woman" who was bringing sin/evil/trouble to the unwitting and innocent male.

So it's both highly favourable to a corrupt system and stupidly patriarchal in its social views. I much preferred Seven Psychopaths but that movie obviously won't do nearly as well.

Instead, here's the beginning scribbles of what I'm working on currently. Forewarning, it is in early alpha and extremely rough so don't cut yourself on the edges.

---------------Break ---------------

Cry of the Glasya-Labolas

The court thundered. The stone walls shook beneath the tempest of violins and drums as the commanding keys of the piano wove masterfully through the piece. But even the clarion of the trumpets and the gentle weep of the harp sounded little more than background chatter. For there was but one sound that cut through the minstrel band like the stampede of an unstoppable cavalry charge.

And it was produced by the smallest, least intimidating creature Keirn had ever seen.

She stood between the thick stone pillars of the throne hall. Dwarfed on all sides by the yawning arches of the audience chamber for the ancient keep. Even the thick tapestries and heralds hanging from the walls couldn't dampen the pelting voice roaring from those thin vocal chords. A single, unassuming woman stood unmoving upon a tiny wooden block.

But while her feet appeared rooted, her arms twisted with each haunting symbol that erupted forth from her with a greater force then a storm whipped tide. It seemed inhuman the sounds that she twisted from deep within her breast. Had Keirn not been standing there to experience it himself, he would never have believed it to be true.

And neither could the assembled court.

Every onlooker watched in stunned muteness as the foreign words of this incredible singer drowned out all other sounds and thoughts from their minds. There was no doubt in Keirn's mind. This was the most beautiful and elegant aria he had ever heard. Granted, he'd never heard one before, but even the Duke Hasselbach sat riveted upon the edge of his stolen throne in rapt entrancement.

And just when Keirn thought it couldn't more impressive, a sudden string of notes he'd never imagined singable came bursting forth from her, directed right down the hall at the raised lord and his gathered attendants by two thin waving arms.

There was but one soul in the entire chamber that seemed unmoved by the piece.

Derrek Gungric, Keirn's closest companion and minstrel had his back turned upon the performance and busied himself with a nearby candlestand. Through sheer apparent boredom, he passed the soft flame from one candle to the next, letting the wax drip in thick rivers down the sides until it pooled in the small holders.

“How can you not like this?” Keirn whispered. “I hate your music the most and even think this is damn good.”

“Heard it before.”

“Not like this,” Keirn said. There was no way in this life or the next anyone had heard something like this.

There was a collective gasp as the young singer stepped from her perch. She turned, addressing the courtiers to the sides and the guards standing before the massive barred doors. It was impossible to know what she sang but the delivery gave the briefest impression that it was directed at you alone before she broke the spell and turned to the next face.

It was impossible to look away. Until Keirn heard a strange rustling and quickly scanned around for the source.

Having exhausted his attention with the candles, it seemed that Derrek was now busying himself with darkening a pair of thick glasses with a large piece of charcoal.

“What are you doing?!” Keirn hissed, slipping as unobtrusively to his side.

“I can't watch this any longer,” Derrek said.

“So you're going to blind yourself!”

“That's the plan.”

Keirn stood momentarily mute.

“We're suppose to be guarding the Duke!”

“So?”

“How are you going to do that if you can't see?”

“Shhhh!”

Keirn turned to the intruding voice only to be greeted with Jeremiah's stern face. The larger man motioned towards the singer with a look of impatience. Keirn cast a glance back at the Duke who appeared to be completely oblivious to the disruption. He motioned to Derrek as explanation for his actions but Jeremiah merely waved his hand dismissively.

Keirn turned back to the stubborn minstrel. He'd already completely blacked out one eye. He sighed, turning from his friend back to the performance. Keirn would just have to settle with being extra attentive to make up for the lack of eyes from the bard.

Not that there wasn't an already impressive show of force in the court today. Trained archers lined the galleys and four guards stood watch over every entrance. But the show of force was easily forgotten beneath the elegant woman before them.

Keirn then felt a tugging at his sleeve.

“What?!”

“Do you know where Kait left her bags?”

Keirn leaned in close to his friend as the singer hit another stretch of impossible notes.

“Why don't you ask her?”

“She looks like she's having fun.”

“And I'm not?”

“You've already missed the overture. Besides, I'm doing you a favour by missing this atrocious performance.”

Keirn sighed.

“What do you need now?”

“The leg bones from dinner.”

“Of course you- what?”

“From the swine. You know, you said yourself it was the finest you'd eaten in weeks.”

“I'm well aware of what I ate!”

“SHHHHHHHH!”

Keirn grabbed his friend's dainty wrist and pulled him from the throne dais. Once he was sure he was out of earshot from the duke, he turned upon the impossible delicate features of his friend.

“First, why in the blazes would you need those. Second, why are they in my sisters bag?!”

“Probably to finish her chime.”

Keirn merely blinked at his incomprehensible friend.

“You're impossible sometimes.”

“So do you know where she left them?”

“I believe she was requested to leave them in the guard quarters just outside the hall.”

Suddenly, there was a pause in the vocals as the instruments swelled in the break.

Derrek frowned.

“I'll have to get them later.”

He then began removing his shirt.

Keirn grabbed his hands.

“Would you stop!”

“The wax should be ready by now,” Derrek said, slipping his hands free and tossing his jerkin aside.

“Look, you may be jealous of another bard getting the lead performance for the Duke but that doesn't give you the right to ruin this. Especially when we haven't even been compensated yet!”

Derrek paused with his belt in his hand. The woman's voice burst forth and he dropped his pants.

“Probably best to do it now,” he said, shaking his boots free. Keirn growled, snatching for the discarded trousers as the bard quickly hopped to the candlestand in nothing but his linen braies. There, the blonde man dipped his fingers into the cooling pools of wax and plugged them deep into his ears. As Keirn rounded on him with trousers held menacingly in one hand and the belt in the other, the bard danced effortlessly about his wailing arms before slipping behind him. There he plunged his fingers into Keirn's ears and the young man could immediately feel the hardening wax plug his ear canals and mute out all but the faintest echoes of the lingering song.

Keirn rounded on his friend, feeling a familiar frenzy drawing in his chest. But just as he was about to wield his friend's belt as a whip, he caught a sudden shift of motion on his periphery.

He turned, watching as the Duke's rapt attention turned to that of sheer horror. The honour guard standing by his side merely gaped in fear, their crisp halberds dropping from frozen fingers. Keirn felt the motion instead of hearing anything in that dampening silence. All about him, a perceptible change had overtaken the crowd. The courtesans and guests seemed to draw back from the room, pressing against the walls before turning and fleeing towards the doors.

But all entrances to the throne room had been sealed by request of the Duke. The mob merely pounded useless against the wood.

Keirn wasn't entirely sure what it was that drew his attention back to the centre of the room. But as he turned his face he could feel a sudden burning wave of heat wash over him. And what he saw caused his heart to stop.

There, standing upon the raised wooden step was a towering horror. Keirn wasn't even sure what it was.

The creature wore the body of a human, bare chested but with thick irons wrapped about its arms and dangling from large wrists. The chains pulled taut as great iron collars shackled monstrous canine creatures that snapped about the monster's thighs. But both man and beasts were much larger than anything... human.  

The creature raised its head, a burnt stag skull resting upon its sinewy shoulders. From the darkest pits of its sockets burned an undying red light like stoked embers. A dented and torn scale mail skirt hung limply about the creature's waist, coated in dried blood and flecked with rotted pieces of fur and flesh that gave a nauseating scent of death that radiated from the monster.

Finally, a pair of great eagle wings sprouted from the creature's back. But these weren't majestic appendages by bloody and broken masses of torn skin and protruding bone. Great splotches of featherless skin were stretched over the bloodied heavenly remnants.

Through the thick wax, Keirn could hear the hollowest echoes of screams.

The creature raised its arms and the four front hounds bound forward. The chains about its forearms unravelled as the beasts bore across the flagged floor faster than any worldly predator. Before anyone could react, they had descended upon the petrified Duke, curved claws longer than daggers tearing through cloth and flesh in mere seconds.

All the Duke's guards merely watched in unmoving fear as their liege was torn to shreds before them.

Keirn felt something strike the back of his head and he turned to see Derrek practically naked and staring uselessly at a pillar through his darkened glasses. The minstrel made a gnawing gesture then shrugged his shoulders.

“Now's not the time!” Keirn shouted.

Then he realized Derrek couldn't hear him. The feminine man merely smacked him again and repeated the gesture.

But the distraction had shaken Keirn from his inaction and he could feel the pressing need to do something and quickly. He grabbed his friend by the wrist and pulled him away from the throne towards the guard room. He didn't know what the bard was planning with the bones but perhaps he knew some sorcery to deal with this terror.

Course, Keirn had no idea how he was going to get through the frightened mob.

Yet, as Keirn hurried towards the side entrances, he noticed the gathered audience turning almost as if they were directed. They all peered back to the centre of the room where Keirn could hear only the faintest of whispers mingling with the ravaged slobbers of those great hounds.

 Whatever distraction beheld the others, it made pushing past them with his blind, naked friend in tow easier. Keirn descended on the door, trying the handle and feeling it catch against it's latch.

“It's locked!” he cried. Uselessly.

This deafness thing was going to take some getting used to. Keirn turned to Derrek for more guidance but the bard merely repeated the bone-gnawing gesture.

 The temperature in the room noticeably rose and Keirn could feel sweat beginning to bead upon his neck. He raised his hand to wipe it away and noticed a curiously change seem to overtake his neighbours.  

The attendants clutched at their ears, pressing back against the walls or collapsing against the floor. Some appeared to writhe in agony while others drew whatever item or weapon they had at hand. Thus, armed they struck out madly about them, hitting and stabbing whatever their weapons found purchase in.

And in this monstrous crowd, Keirn's sister was still. With stilling heart, Keirn realized she could still be standing at the Duke's side where those beastly hounds still feasted. Keirn began to push his way through the crowd.

He'd barely taken a few steps before he felt someone his wrist grabbed. He turned to see Derrek still standing with one arm raised to gnaw. But there was something in his posture that seemed to suggest a great sense of urgency. It was hard to pinpoint what, but something about how he held himself seemed to indicate that if they had the bones then they would be able to get their friends.  

Sticks and Stones

The tournament of Hearts is on this week. For those unfamiliar with the sport of curling - this is the nationals for the women's teams.

For those who have never curled, try not to judge the players too hard before you have spent two hours delivering and sweeping rocks yourself. It may look easy on TV but I can assure you - from experience - it is not. I am not referring to strength; anyone can through a rock the length of the ice. And many people can sort of sweep the rocks. However, it is difficult to through it exactly where you are supposed to and even more difficult to know how to call the ice and sweeping for the rock. Even sweeping is not as easy as it looks - you have to combine the right amount of pressure and friction along with a good sense of how fast that rock is travelling and where it will stop. Three years into the sport and I still struggle to make any of my shots.

However, even more interesting than playing the sport or watching the game on TV is learning about some of curling's rich history. Recently, I was fortunate to talk with an older gentleman who remembers a time when teams played 14 ends (not the 8-10 ends common now) and other mostly forgotten trivia.

Curling was developed in Scotland, the home of golf. Like golf, curling started with 18 ends. Imagine going back and forth across the ice sheet 18 times. Currently teams will play 10 ends in just under 3 hours. Granted the style of game has changed some in that time. There are now rules about guards - mostly the first four guards cannot be removed. This has shifted the strategy of the game and the type of shotes. Previously most shots were take-outs, not draws, meaning the game moved that much faster.

The size and weight of the stones has also changed since its inception. At one time, stones ranged from 40 - 60 lbs - there was no set size. Now, of course they are uniform in size, weight and shape. Only a small running surface on the bottom of the rock is actually in contact with the ice. Further, and most interesting to me, the act of putting a spin on the rock was against the rules. Apparently, skips were expected to guess which way a rock would start curling (spinning and arching across the ice) by reading the ice and the rocks. To add a spin was thought to be cheating as you were directing the rock. Weird.

As the sport evolved, Canada developed its own style and Europe a slightly different variation. One of the big differences being the spin on the rocks. Now the rules are consistant - at least to my understanding.

Evolving along with the rules of the sport are the rules of the social aspect - which many consider just as important. Parts of the country, my club included, follow the social norm where the winning team is responsible for buying the first round of drinks after the game. It is expected that both teams sit together for some time after they play. Perhaps it is this attitude that makes curling so welcoming to beginners at all ages. I have met some players that started after they retired from work, while others have been curlings since they were children. It is impressive that the oldest curler at our club is 96 years young!

It is a great sport and still one of my favourites to watch. Go Ontario Go!

Lore and Story in Dark Souls

"But then there was fire and with fire came disparity. Heat and Cold. Life and Death. And of course, Light and Dark. Then, from the Dark they came and found the souls of lords within the flame."

- Dark Souls Prologue

Dark Souls is an action/RPG hybrid from Japanese developer From Software. It is the sequel to the critically acclaimed and oddly punctuated Demon's Souls. I did not play the first and only recently picked up this game as it finally saw a PC release. However, substantial word of mouth and numerous awards raised my expectations for the title. A number of glowing reviews highlighted its combat and story so I was eager to experience both. 

Since my ramblings generally favour writing and storytelling, I'll leave just a quick summary of the actual game. The combat is fun with an emphasis on a melee system that focuses on proper timing with your attacks, blocks and dodges. Bonus damage is awarded for successfully parrying and riposting an attack or if you're able to manoeuvre and score a backstab against an incredibly small hitbox on your enemies. There is also an archery and magic system which isn't nearly as intricate and mostly results in you running backwards while spamming your spells and hoping you have enough 'casts' to see you to your next bonfire where you can restore them.

Naturally, as an avid fan of Skyrim, I picked a sorcerer. This means I miss out on the varied combos and attack patterns of the different weapon classes and for armour have my choice of three dresses. On the plus side, bosses are incredibly easy since I don't have to run my face repeatedly into their enormous weapons. 

But Dark Soul's story is an interesting beast. 

Unlike most Japanese RPGs, Dark Souls does not rely on scripted cutscenes to tell its narrative. Most are used for quick little boss intros to highlight how much trouble you're actually in. The only substantial story video is the very opening of the game which gives a rather long, rambling explanation about fire and undead that will mean absolutely nothing to the player on first viewing. 

The rest of the story is told through really short descriptions given on items that you collect around Lordran. 

It's a curious format that has received a lot of praise from fans. This puts the onus on the player to seek out information on the story and the world instead of heaping long narrative dumps every three or so hours throughout the game. It's a style that could really benefit from the interactive medium that videogames inhabit. Traditionally, videogame narratives have striven to mimic the more cinematic approach popular with movies. This creates a disconnect between the game portion and the narrative portion of many games as developers will typically rely on animated cutscenes that remove the player's agency in order to show them extravagant explosions or witty banter wholly out of the control of those playing. 

The great thing about Dark Souls delivery is that it doesn't interrupt the flow of the game. Players choose when they want to engage with the story by loading up their inventory and selecting through the menus to the item descriptions. It also provides an additional reward for exploration and discovery as the only way to gain more information on the narrative is to seek out as much equipment as they can which leads to investigating every nook and cranny of the level design. 

And, because the story is delivered in these short, concise snippets much is left to the interpretation of the player to order the information they're provided into a more coherent whole. 

However, there is one major drawback. Because you're limited by the number of items you have in the game, so damn little is actually established or said. 

Now, you can communicate with the numerous NPCs spread throughout the world but most of them have little to say other than some cryptic statement on your current goal followed by the actors most hammed maniacal laugh. This leaves the player in a constant state of confusion since there is so little direction actually given - both for the overarcing narrative and even for current goals within the game. While it promotes exploration and discovery, what you're left with is an incomplete framework in which to organize the information you gather. 

My issue with this system is that it's really hard to judge whether Dark Souls has a good story or if it even has a story at all. Essentially, the narrative you weave through your own actions as you make your way through the forty or so hours to the ending is very rudimentary. You have to ring some bells for god knows what reason, get some giant bowel from some large breasted women for god knows what reason, then fill that bowl with juicy souls for god knows what reason. Nothing is every made clear and closing in on the final act I found myself searching online for videos to explain why I was doing all these unrelated actions. I figured the answer lay in those impossible ledges that I couldn't be bothered finding a path to. So I was content to let more persevering souls explain it to me.

What I found, however, was a wealth of useless information and a sea of shaky speculation. It appears that nothing is ever really explained and most lore enthusiasts are left formulating their own theories on the elements of the narrative. Now, ambiguity is an excellent tool to engage your readership and used effectively can really drive home your themes. 

Unfortunately, too much ambiguity and you stifle the discourse on your work. Most of the discussion on the lore of Dark Souls really focuses on minor elements. Almost every video I cam across discussed Lord Gwyn's Silver and Black Knights, spending valuable time explaining that the Black Knights are not a separate rank but a portion of Gwyn's soldiers who followed him into a confrontation and were permanently tarnished because of it. It's a neat little detail but certainly not something that should dominate discussion. However, it's one of the few details that players are able to ascertain with any amount of certainty. 

Which is a shame because the discourse shouldn't revolve around the fracturing of the Silver Knights or what religion Bishop Havel belongs to when there are such grander elements like the nature of humanity and the meaning of souls. 

This brings me to the goal of storytelling. At the end of the day, there is a story that you want to tell and most stories hinge on a theme or conflict. Fantasy stories are able to explore these themes and conflicts in novel ways by introducing us to worlds freed from the constraints and limitations of our own to further highlight your goals that would be either difficult or impossible if you were limited by accuracy and realism. Want to focus on the nature of good and evil? You can create a universal powered by the forces of these two ideas and shift your societies from the complex morality of our own lives.

However, for these worlds to be successful to your audience, you have to create some sort of understandable internal logic that your readers can anchor themselves within. You need them to be able to suspend their disbelief of all the fantastic elements you introduce in your fantasy world and giving them a consistent universe that works on rules and laws that the player can follow is the best way to do that. 

Unfortunately, because Dark Souls is so vague and reticent in informing the player on anything we're never given an opportunity to establish what these laws of the universe are. In the opening cinematic we're introduced to a world that is suspended on giant iron trees filled with dragons and magic and undead. We're told of Ages of Ancients and Fire but we're never told what these descriptors mean. We know that souls are found in the Fire but we don't know what the Fire is. We don't know what souls are. We just don't know anything. 

And when given an absence of information, your audience is going to fill in the blanks. It's only natural that we compose a narrative of the actions and events we experience. And what information are we going to draw upon than elements of our own lives? So the laws of Dark Souls and our own world begin to merge and intertwine in ways the developers had no intention because the players are given so little to work with. 

Which brings me back to a point I mentioned earlier. There's quite a bit of discussion over the religion that Bishop Havel belongs to but unfortunately this discussion is absolutely meaningless. In a world were souls are pulled from some inexplicable Fire, societies are built at the tops of enormous trees that have taken root in an unending lake of ash and some people are born with a sign that designates them as undead, how much weight can we put in understanding titles and concepts that share a name with real world counterparts? How do we even know that Bishop is a position in a church? It could be his first name for all the information we're given. And what is a god in Dark Souls? Is it someone that possesses a lord's soul? Is it one of the first people to have emerged from the fire? Is it just anyone that participated in the battle with the ancient dragons?

Without some sort of foundation for your audience to work on everything ends up being pointless speculation. I can't really talk about this story with my friend since our interpretations of what the hell is going on are going to be so wildly different as we base our understanding on the narrative primary on our own imposed rules and laws than those established by the designers. 

And all of this could be avoided and still keep the very simplistic story reminiscent of ancient legend and myth that I'm sure the developers were hoping to emulate. A few more narrative moments, some establishment of common concepts inherent to this universe and a tighter focus on the elements that the developers wish to explore would do wonders. 

As it stands, we're left as nameless wanderers through a world of fog and smoke with only tiny islands of information to find ourselves stranded upon.

B-B-B-Ballin!

Now that I'm feeling better I can proudly return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

---------------Break ---------------

Derrek woke with a groan. Pushing his mind through the haze of unconsciousness, he remembered a warning and immediately reached for his crotch. He sighed with relief as everything was accounted for.

A laugh caused him to roll painfully upon his side.

A lone candle sat in a twisted metal stand, casting soft light upon a figure sitting in a worn chair. A large cat was stretched across the lap with a single, languid hand brushing up and down its fur. The face, half cast in shadow, watched him closely with one eye.

“You have no fear of that from me.”

Derrek reached his hand to his forehead, pressing against the burning pain in his skull.

“You are quite fortunate you found me in time,” his benefactor continued. “The poison had done a number on your system.”

“Poison?”

“But I am most curious how it is you found me.”

His watcher leaned curiously forward, the cat springing from her perch to gaze up at Derrek with expecting eyes.

“I think I’m having one of those days,” Derrek said. Suddenly, he sat erect, as the memories began to come back to him. “What time is it?”

“Well past noon. Why?”

“I still have to register!” Derrek cried, jumping to his feet. He felt weak, like he had been tossed down an endless staircase, but he he couldn't let his exhaustion stop him now.

“Registered for what?”

“The Challenge,” Derrek said. “I can’t explain, Dian. I must go.”

“I don’t know who you angered, but it is not safe out there.”

Derrek looked about for his missing lute.

“The hat.”

“Hat?”

He found it leaning against the wall and quickly reclaimed it. He tested a few of the strings before turning the instrument over in his hands.

“That’s how I found you. One of your men wore a Colvian hat.”

Dian’s head shook with confusion.

“I do not understand. How did that tell you he was with me?”

“Is not your favourite dish Colvian roasted pheasant?”

“Well… yes, but…”

“And he worked for you,” Derrek said with a shrug. He wasn’t entirely sure what Dian was struggling with as it seemed so obvious to him. He searched about for an exit, heading quickly towards the thin shafts of light he assumed outlined a door in the gloom.

“Why did you come looking for me?” Dian asked, getting out of the chair. Dian moved quickly after Derrek, wedging a light frame draped in modest clothes of a simple northern peasant between Derrek and the door.

“Well, who else do I know that could remedy me?”

“You knew you were poisoned?”

“I couldn’t be hung over.”

Dian’s head shook.

“You are making no damnable sense. What is all this about?”

“The Challenge. And if I don’t get myself registered then Alec is going to win. I can’t explain more.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t understand it yet.”

Dian just sighed with resignation.

“Very well, go get your registration. But know that I will have someone keep an eye on you. It is plain to me that trouble dogs your path.”

“It can’t be too bad,” Derrek said, pausing as he rested his hand upon the door handle. “If they wanted me dead, they would have killed me by now.”

“And who would that be?”

“Still working on that.”

He pushed his way out of the cellar and back into daylight. He could hear the shouting of the hawkers and the buyers echoing down the streets. With a clearer head, he quickly gathered his bearings and made straight for the College of Bards.

He had better recollections of his night. He remembered Mikael’s betrayal and Mairen’s threat. He wasn’t entirely sure how that had ended but no doubt it was them that had him drugged. But that didn’t explain why Alec Carver had ransacked his room, assuming it was Carver which the inn’s Matron referred to as the fat man.

Nor did it explain why all three of them were conspiring to keep him from the Challenge. But there was no doubt that was their ultimate aim. That assurance led speed to his feet as he made his way towards the College.

As Derrek hurried, he couldn’t help but feel a presence following him. It was an unmistakeable sensation, like the soft crawling of cold fingers down one’s neck. Derrek didn’t question these instinctual feelings. If there was one thing the College had taught him it was that a man must always be open to inspiration from his muse. Derrek’s had more a penchant for discerning danger than creative inspiration, but one couldn’t really choose the creative spirit that answered you.

Derrek paused before an armour stall, pretending to peruse the inventory. Specifically, he started examining the shields. He held one after the other overhead, turning it slowly in his hands. After a few seconds of inspection, he would drop one and turn to the next. The merchant made to help him, but Derrek ignored him, picking through shield after shield until he found the one with the greatest sheen.

He then held it aloft, turning it until he could pinpoint the presence stalking his tail.

To his surprise, he caught the reflection of a big, fat black cat.

“That’s who Dian sent to keep me safe?” Derrek wondered.

He returned the shield and continued on his march.

The College of Bards was a rather grandiose structure. It had a single grand tower rising majestically into the air surrounded by the main building and the adjoining bunk houses. Though mostly constructed of imported wood and quarried stone, it was quite clear the original design had been to evoke the grand view of a cathedral. Since few churches or temples had the opportunity to be built in Etreria, the College sought to beat the monks to having the most visually impressive home. Probably so they could claim the monks copied the bards.

The College was a remarkably busy institute. It seemed almost every young girl and boy dreamed of being a successful minstrel. More were drawn with the dreams of being great performers and of illustrious careers in the playhouses and upon the stage. The reality was far harsher. Very few troupes ever achieved great renown and it would be the fortunate graduate who found work remotely related to their studies.

But it was also a curious institute on its own. Derrek believed that you really couldn’t teach talent. Either a person was followed by a muse or they were not. There were no classes that could compensate for that creative force. And those that attempted to fake it produced the most derivative work.

For those blessed with a creative spirit, the College served a much more important function. It allowed the aspiring minstrel or storyteller to forge important bonds and networks with the most influential individuals. Most two bit copper establishments would hire anyone that could squawk a familiar canto or produce a dodgy haiku on the spot. But to see the inside of the grandest theatres took real reputation. The Seeker title bypassed all that and gave one entertainer a free ride to the big leagues.

To be barred from the institute was perhaps the greatest sabotage a rival entertainer could perform. Especially since non-members were unable to register for the Challenge.

There was a small booth erected at the gate. A tired looking secretary sat within, an enormous stack of registration papers by her side. She thumbed a large pair of gilded eyeglasses while she watched each passer by warily.

As Derrek approached, she slipped her glasses over her nose and regarded the man coolly. She gazed behind him then bolted upright, leaning out the front of her booth and waving her hands.

“Is that cat yours?” she called. Derrek looked back at the well fed feline.

“No, it’s not mine.”

“I would hope not. Unsanctioned use of magic is strictly forbidden on College grounds!”

She unlatched the door from inside her booth and stomped around, shooing the creature away.

 The cat mere fell back on its haunches, its fur standing up on end. It opened its mouth, hissing loudly and swiping its paws as the woman drew near. As the woman stomped closer, her hands waving madly, the cat retreated hesitantly - obviously reluctant to leave Derrek’s shadow.

It seemed odd to Derrek that Dian would have the cat enchanted. It didn’t seem in character for Dian to purchase such frivolous expenditures, especially for someone running one of the roughest gangs in the shadows of Etreria.

It also struck Derrek as a rather poor time for the woman to leave her booth unattended. While distracted, Derrek walked up to the woman’s papers, looking over the sheets with interest. One pile was filled will all the accepted applicants and the other contained emptied forms.

With deft hands, Derrek snatched the quill, dipping it in the ink and selecting the easiest filled form to forge.

All he had to do was change the name of the applicant and cover the telling marks with flowery script.

He briefly considered the injustice that Dirrac Gilimari was about to face but was consoled with the fact that, had he been more clever, he would have done this to enter himself rather than rely on the handouts of his family or the College sponsorship. After all, what was a minstrel if he didn’t display some amount of ingenuity?

With sheet filled and filed, Derrek watched the woman chase the feline further away before turning towards the grand hall. He twisted the lute in his hands, played a few encouraging chords, then set about searching for the spot where the competitors were arranged to meet.

Neverending Series

Book Review – Unspoken

By Sarah Rees Brennan

I am going to start this review by first admitting I can be very hypocritical. On one hand I like series – I like big stories that are broken into book-sized sections. I like spending time with the characters; watching as they grow and develop and gradually reach their story’s end. On the other hand, why does every book I pick up now have to be a series? I must cast my mind back some distance, a year at least, to recall a novel read that wasn’t part of some larger over-arching tale. Further it seems that these series have ever greater focus on the larger plot they fail to have self-contained stories in their book-length chapters. Perhaps it would be less frustrating if I didn’t seem to find these series at their inception – for now I am forced to wait years and years to find out what happens. 

One of my recent reads is an excellent story of a girl psychically linked with a boy who just moves to her home town. The girl is wonderfully spunky; out to uncover the secrets of her small, English town as she develops her skills as a journalist of truth. With so much that could go wrong with this premise, I was delighted with the author’s handling of the plot and characters. Teenagers can be tricky to deal with; so many emotions of first loves, school rivalries, and insecurities surrounding growing up can bog down the characters. But the wit and energy and practical, go-get-them attitude woven into the pages was perfect. 

The characters had their problems and their triumphs. Importantly they pulled off their conversations with a certain down-to-earth attitude and a great deal of humor. They were not overly awkward, terribly angsty, or unrealistically adult-like. Rather, they were well balanced and amusing. 

It was pleasure to read and my only complaint comes with the certain knowledge that this is but book one in a series – a series that has only just begun. The ending cuts, leaving our heroes on an emotional down. Their world is falling to pieces and will likely only get worse for a while. Abysmally, I must now wait an undetermined length of time for all subsequent books to be written, edited and finally published. Sigh, it is a great deal of trouble this waiting and I sometimes I feel cheated by its ever constant presence. Please authors, find it in your hearts to write books that do actually stand-alone.

Sad News

No posts today. My apologies.

More Balls

The ever continuing adventures of our fearless bard commence once more!

---------------Break ---------------

           Derrek woke with a start. He could still hear the echoing threat ringing in his head. Immediately he reached for his crotch, sighing with relief to know everything was accounted for. He then looked around, curious to find himself in a familiar tiny room.

           The rafters slanted overhead, the beams musty with the smell of mildew and age. A small wardrobe had been placed near the door just below the steps leading to the alcove that contained the bed. A writing table was directly across from the wardrobe.  

However, his papers were not stacked neatly upon them. Instead, his supplies had been violently scattered across the floor. Dried ink ran down the long leg of the desk and fragments of ceramic told of the containers last moments. All his papers had been thrown about, caught in a small whirlwind that materialized with the apparent intent to destroy his stuff. The wardrobe doors were pulled open and clothes thrown forth as if the cabinetry had vomited them out.  

Derrek pushed himself till he sat on his bed. Then he quickly clutched his head as the room began to swirl in his vision. He felt like he was free falling through the air and the walls were spinning like a child's top. Strings of pain laced across his brain. He immediately felt like lying down again.

“Is this what it feels to be hung over?”

Derrek was not a stranger to liquor but possessed the enviable knack for never suffering from his drinking the morning after. It didn’t matter how much or little he consumed, he always woke bright and cheerful with the start of each new day.

This day, however, was far too different. He stomach seemed to flop within him like a beached fish squirming with its last strength for the safety of water. His body was sluggish and unresponsive, as if his thoughts were unable to make the journey to his limbs.  

He turned to the window, immediately regretting the action as sharp pain responded to the blast of light filtering through the torn curtains. He immediately collapsed against his moth eaten pillow, seeking refuge beneath its stained comfort.

What had happened last night?

It felt like a bad dream and nothing was distinct. He remembered being surrounded by half naked men, really disappointing wine and some questionable acting. There was something else that skittered just at the forefront of recollection. A recognizable voice that made him think peculiarly of spoiled fish.

Also, there was something about orbs. Something that seemed important enough to warrant further investigation.

Ignoring the pounding of his head, Derrek tumbled from the twisted embrace of his blanket, crawling pitifully along the floor until he found some trousers and a decent tunic. Most his other clothes appeared in too disrepair, either torn and covered in dirt and ink, to be wearable.  

He pulled on his boots and grabbed his lute and coin purse before stumbling feebly out his door. 

He had to lean heavily upon the rail as he nearly rolled down the stairs. There was little activity on the main floor of the tavern. The matron was puttering about, sweeping beneath tables covered in chairs. There was a stirring behind the bar and Derrek stumbled his way over.

“Innkeep!” he hollered, his voice thick and slurred.

The large man stood up from beneath his counter. Derrek couldn’t help but reflect on how most innkeepers were often quite large and dressed in similarly stained aprons.

“I have a name,” the man grumbled.

“Your finest meats and cheeses, if you’d please. I have a busy day ahead!”

The innkeep eyed Derrek warily.

“First, I thought you said you’d given up on meat.”

“Your finest cheese then!”

“Second, you hardly look like you’re ready for any day, busy or not. Wild night?”

“I don’t remember,” Derrek said, slumping against the counter. “Think you’d mind adding a mead to the order?”

“I’ll give you water but I can charge you the same if it would make you feel better.”

“Unlikely,” Derrek replied, his lips flopping against the polished wood. He found if he rolled his head at just the right angle, the pressure of the counter seemed to alleviate sixty percent of the pain flashing about his brain.

“Will you be participating in the Challenge today?” the innkeeper asked, eyeing Derrek’s lute.

“I have aspirations,” Derrek muttered from the counter. He lifted his head as a small tray of cheese and a great mug of water were slapped down loudly beside him. “By the way, I didn’t happen to have any visitors last night. Either while I was here or away?”

“Don’t rightly know, I wasn’t working that late,” the innkeep said. “Marta! Oi! Did this fine gentleman have any callers?”

The Matron looked up, slapping the broom handle in her palm.

“What do I look like, eh? Some sort of fancy herald?”

“Don’t give me that lip woman! You know very well that he has been expecting friends for a few days now. Would you turn away all potential customers because you’d rather sit drunken before the fire?”

“Don’t take that tone with me! If it weren’t for my work this whole place would crash down about her piggish head!”

The pair’s raising voices weren’t helping with Derrek’s headache. He tried to politely wait it out by stuffing some questionable bread into his ears. He then focussed his attention on the aging cheese and peculiar water.

“No worry, it wasn’t important anyway.”

“Look, woman! Now you’re upsetting the clientele!”

“Me? He looks positively sick after eating that foul mess you call food!”

“Well, we could serve some decent meals if you learned to cook like a proper wife!”

“Just add it to my tab,” Derrek smiled, pushing himself to his feet and staggering towards the door.

“Hold on a sec,” the Matron called. “There were some folks asking around for you the other night I believe.”

“A woman and two men?”

“I don’t remember all of them,” the lady replied, scratching her frazzled mane. “But I do remember the fat one. Carried an instrument like yours. Seemed to suggest you were old friends or the like. Wouldn’t have let him near your room otherwise.”

Derrek nodded.

“Much appreciated. Oh, and if the three I described before do come, tell them to wait for me up at the Academy.”

Derrek stumbled out the door.

He wasn’t sure where he was headed but given his present state of mind he wasn’t sure of anything. He mostly acted on the urge to find some decent drink and the growing certainty that if he didn’t find some money soon his current room and board would catch on that he couldn’t afford the tab he was quickly accumulating.

And so he did the most foolish thing one could possibly do in the City of Roads.

He wandered.

It was a well known idiom that even if one knew where they were going it was unlikely they would get there in Etreria. The streets had the knack of swallowing up the aimless. Citizens treated the lost posters as just another form of decoration, often besetting on the poor pamphlets with their brushes and paints to make them more decorative than actually participating in any search for the lost souls.

Likely, there was little effort made for the vanished because most knew it was pointless. To say there was a seedy underbelly in Etreria would give the mistaken impression that there was a respectable body to be blemished. Because of so many clashing cultures, no one knew how to properly regulate them. Most foreigners arrived with their own preconceptions of what the laws of the land should be. It was joked that Etreria was home to the most courts and fewest magistrates in the lands.

The original fort still stood, a tiny bastion of lawfulness that, instead of attempting to clean up the bursting civilization growing around it, merely just walled itself in and hid from the ever growing problems. If anyone was ever caught breaking the law, it was almost impossible to figure out how to punish them.

Instead, the wealthiest merchant families turned to hiring their own guards and mercenaries to protect their interests. Thus the main artery roads that saw the most trade were heavily watched but the further one strolled from those main thoroughfares, the more the laws descended into the rule of the wild.

“Und stratz mit ze uldensackt, flutens.”

Derrek paused, noticing his addresser emerge from beneath the tattered remains of a long abandoned stall. 

“Hello.”

“Lost, fluten?”

The man was a dirty sort; the kind that found his bed beneath the awnings of forgetful merchants at night and sorted through the wastes for his food. He had distinctive tattoos printed upon his face in pale imitation of the markings of the eastern gangs. Though his clothes were grimy and worn, his fur rimmed hat looked perhaps the most aged.

A startling wave of nausea washed over Derrek and he tipped, leaning against his confronter and looking up at him with bleary eyes.

“You… you look travelled.”

“What are you on?” the man asked, his eyes narrowing as he pushed Derrek back. Derrek leaned against the stall to keep himself upright.

“Leboe. Dian. Take.”

It wasn’t perhaps his most comprehensible sentence, but he hoped the message still got across.

The thug looked at Derrek with confusion. He drew a rusted knife from his belt.

Derrek shook his head.

“No. No, need Dian…”

He would have continued more but felt the muscles of his throat begin to contract and he turned, the remnants of his breakfast and whatever he had consumed the evening prior ejecting upon the ground.

The thug merely turned to his compatriot waiting in the shadows and nodded his head further down the dank alleyway. Derrek just waited, still hunched over as his digestive system worked over what little else it was holding. However, after ridding himself of the undigested food, he begin to feel a slight alleviation in his headache and his stomach felt less like it was tossing on the open seas.

Soon, the sound of stamping feet echoed down the back alley. There was incomprehensible grunting and one of the men pulled Derrek upright. He wavered before a rather rakish individual with much cleaner clothes and a large black patch tied over one eye.

“Take him,” came the stern reply.

Almost immediately, Derrek was hoisted upon someone’s shoulders and bounced down the alley. He really couldn’t gather where he was carried, but there was the sound of a scratching gate before he was pushed through a door into a dank basement.

He heard orders shouted as his lute was pulled from him and he was hoisted upon a table. Hands pinned his limbs as old One Eye appeared above him, peering down with its concerned namesake.

“Drink.”

A cup was lifted to his lips as a hand opened his mouth. Derrek felt the burn of the liquid wash against his throat.

And then he felt nothing.

Why zombies? Why?

I confess I am a little uncertain the rules and regulations of blogging. However, I am going to give this a try. With that in mind I will make an attempt to post on Wednesdays - hopefully on a weekly basis. And since I have been reading books of late, I thought I could start with a book review.

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The Doomsday Vault 

 by Steven Harper

What I thought I was getting was a Steampunk adventure with a bit of romance in the background – perhaps a bit trashy, but less so than the other softcover Steampunk novels I was looking at. What I got was a book about zombies and clockwork automatons. 

First, I hate zombies in practically every form. There are very few exceptions to this rule and this book is not one of them. Not only that, but when you try to explain the formation of zombies it always sounds a bit silly. I suppose I should concede that germ theory did come into play around the mid-1800s. And viruses were discovered by the 1890s. Though, no one in 1857 knew that bacteria caused disease and they certainly did not suspect viruses of infecting bacteria. So when they tried to claim the cause was bacterial and the cure a virus, I was offended by this point of science. I was also unimpressed that the same bacteria which caused some people to become mindless, flesh-eating zombies also caused a select few to become super-geniuses. 

Second, the romance between a twenty-two female and eighteen year old boy did not sit well. The boy was simply too boyish for the woman. So the age difference came across poorly for me. This could also have something to do with personal biases. But they played up the boy as a kid when we first meet him and the woman as a mature old maid. Face it; boys of eighteen are still kids.

Third, I don’t like humanoid automatons. They are far too complex. To have technology that is still far beyond what exists today and is supposedly created more than 150 years ago is past my suspension of disbelief. Perhaps that is unfair. I could accept one or two pieces of advanced technology, but when everything exists – from wireless communications, to dirigibles, to complex automatons (including birds that record voices, humanoids that act in every capacity of servant, and a collection of huge mechanical suits), to horseless carriages – I struggle to see the time period. Also, where is the energy source for all this equipment? It is certainly not steam.

Finally, and by far most importantly, the writing was less than brilliant. The narrative was rough in several sections, particularly when modern cursing came into play. This is supposed to be a period piece, written in Victorian England, so please write like it belongs in that time. I suppose the main female was supposed to show the restraints of the period, the social obligations and restrictions. But her conflicts seemed contrived at best. Her struggle to fit into society and her strong desire to break convention were not a compelling tale. Her fiancé was clearly designed to be evil for no good reason. Also, the ending was ridiculously silly – her Aunt manipulated everything! Oh dear.

This may be the first book in a series, but is going to be the last book I read.